intimiteit
by question the corpus
Summary: intimiteit; intimacy. [EngBel] [A series of unrelated shorts collectively unsuitable for a lower rating.]
1. cosset

**Author's Note: **So I came to the conclusion, in a moment of epiphany, that what the world needs is more sensual EngBel. So little love for my wonderful OTP! This is a collection of relevant shorts, so if you don't like mature material, please back-button now. They'll be mostly human AU, I think, but there will be nation-verse ones too. As this is an exercise in combating writer's block, feel free to leave prompts or short requests in the reviews!

* * *

**cosset**

* * *

They do not speak.

So much has been said between them already that anything uttered _now_ would merely be in the interests of abandoning ship, but there's a nervous energy about Arthur that assures Emma he desires to do anything but. It's in the way his eyes drift to her while the rest of him fidgets; it's in the curious little half-smile that's still lit up his whole face.

When she takes his hand – cautiously, not with hesitation – he's expectedly responsive, rising from the chair in one graceful motion so as not to break contact. She runs her thumb over his knuckle, his palm large, and warm... but thankfully _dry_. There is nothing about him that doesn't seem certain.

He squeezes her hand with intensity while he elbows open the bedroom door, and it's enough to make her breath hitch – though it's pleasant. He's bigger than her, but she's not frightened. He would never hurt her. She trusts him enough to give her _this_, and when his size mounts her, pressing his soft weight over her, she feels safe. She's never been more certain of his potential than when they're just about to make the leap.

Their clothes have left the equation in silence, but the bedsheets rustle substantially more while she squirms slightly to get comfortable. Arthur smiles down at her, not _entirely_ good-naturedly, so she offers an apologetic smile of her own, arms sliding up around his shoulders for her hands to clasp over his neck.

He pushes up then, and in, and _in_; Emma sighs as she always does, unashamedly enamoured with the feel of him inside her. It's different, this time – she really _can_ feel him, warm and alive as he rubs against her from the inside. It's good, so, so good, and she wonders why they've never gone bareback before... but after tonight, it won't really matter.

His forehead rests against hers to begin with, something he keeps up until she's warm, warmer than she's even been. He only gives gentle thrusts at first, agonisingly slow, which he isn't _usually_ but there's a gravity to _this_ occasion that hadn't been present before. Her fingertips trace along his skin, reverent and thorough, which means he's taken all the more aback when she eagerly wraps her legs around his middle.

The way he grips her by the hips and roughly pulls her _forward_ makes her smile – oh, oh goodness, her Arthur's never been a patient man – but what really pleases her is how deep he gets. He can't possibly have any doubt in his mind, not when he's so primal in nestling within her. One hand of his runs along her side, savouring its journey as he delights in her curves; she knows that's what he thinks because he's _told_ her, fond of sneaking up behind her while she's pottering about at their stove to simply slide his arms around her.

Poor thing; he probably thinks she's going to let him help, in coming months. She will not allow her Arthur to go _anywhere_ near their stove until she's far too big to stand at it.

Emma is arguably more... _vocal_, than he, when they retire to their room, but they have no reason for it now. He knows just where to push to make her giddy with sensation, thighs trembling while she bites her lip. That's always embarrassed her, the way she gets to that _point_ and all she can do is tremble and clutch at him and hope he knows she adores him.

(It only makes him grin, so smug and pleased with himself. He is very, _very_ lucky she adores him.)

It's all too soon that his hips give the funny little jerk they give every time, an indication that excites her. This is it, really it, and it might not work _this_ time but she's checked her rather clinical charts, run her fingers over calendar dates while absent-mindedly tracing her stomach. He presses her hips above the bed because they very much want to buck, the most humiliating little yelp escaping her throat once his thrusts finally become rough, emboldened.

Emma doesn't know who topples first, but she knows she's caught between crashing waves as the head of him twitches inside her. She _loves_ that feeling, to think with some pride that _she's_ the one who did this, prompted him into burying his face against her shoulder while his hands seize her hair with the most force he's used on her all night. Her waist rises to greet him, pulsing walls keen to milk him for all he has while he's whimpering her name into her throat.

When it's over – when his arms are around her, his nose buried instead in her hair as their legs tangle together – she takes his hand again, far too lazy to do anything else. She is satisfied, not just from sex but from what might be to come; her other hand comes to rest over her belly, this time a conscious effort.

Their own little one. How much of a living dream that would be. Arthur chuckles, low and long, when she begins lifting his fingers individually to simply marvel in how they drop against the pillow again. Slowly, protectively, his arm comes to rest around her belly.

They don't need to speak.

* * *

**-x-**


	2. suite

**suite**

* * *

It only occurs to him once he's _deep_ inside her that he doesn't know her name.

Her shirt has been discarded somewhere across the room, so there's no hope of checking for a name-tag. Besides, he only has himself to blame – it's not the first time he's been inside her. He had her up against the wall, to begin with, her back to him while she braced herself against it with delicate hands, and the way she'd eagerly pushed back into every thrust had been _exquisite_. He entertains himself with the notion he'd see the bruises of how hard his grip had been on her hips, if he examined her middle... _hm_, he might just do that.

To kiss along her breasts, her stomach, his teeth coming to rest against her waist – there is nothing about her body that doesn't entice him, and he can't remember the last time his head was _this_ hazy with lust.

Though his company sends him abroad a great deal, he doesn't make a habit of fucking hotel staff. This girl, his _dream_ girl, is the exception he knew he wouldn't be able to resist – and he's grateful enough that she likes what _she_ sees, too, because he does wonder how a pretty thing like her has evaded being snapped up already. The Italian maître d' seems fond of her; the Spanish chef even more so.

She's wonderfully _curvy_. Arthur has never been fond of partners thin enough to look frail, which is why he finds this gorgeous woman so alluring: a continental bombshell with softly tanned skin, blonde and busty and prone to emitting the most charming little laugh. He'd never have guessed she would be _this _open to a casual fling, and he'd still hardly believe it now... if she wasn't currently riding him for dear life, her charming voice put to better use mewling into his ear.

Her breasts are soft and plump when he gathers them beneath his palms, crowned with prettily pink nipples he's been adamant about sucking and licking until they turn red. He tweaks one, with a mischievous grin, but she's too busy responding with a gasp to notice.

_Christ_, it's been a while since he's had such a responsive bed-mate. It's quite the boost to his ego, yes, but she knows a trick or two herself, so he can't possibly claim full credit for why this is all so very _good_. The way she twists just _so_ to take him deeper, the well-timed throbs of her walls that can't _possibly_ be inadvertent... Now and then he's been looking at her painfully pretty face (if their position allows it), only to find her displaying a breathless, catlike grin – it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen, and she has the agility of a feline to match.

They are at least even in the sense that she doesn't know _his_ name, either, which is why the noises she makes are rather incoherent. Or perhaps she's uttering things in Dutch, but he's too far gone to care, his entire body trembling in the most wonderful way from each thrum of pleasure that overtakes his frame. It begins deep inside him, heat and lust mixing dangerously in his stomach until he can only thrust urgently up into her slick, tight heat – the friction of it almost makes him let out sounds like sobs, because he _needs_ to come again but he can't let go yet when he wants more and more.

Everything about this woman is _spoiling_ him.

She seems to know it, too, because she offsets her grinds and bounces and wriggles by running her palms down his chest, painted fingernails raking through the blond hair across him. A thin sheen of sweat is a second skin, but it's understandable because he doesn't think he's _ever_ had this much sex in one go. No orgasm has been satisfying, not fully – he wants as much of her as he can get, but he's still bewildered that he desperately wants to know her _name_.

After one particularly compelling cry, she nuzzles her cheek softly against his. It's familiar, but he _likes_ it, hands sliding down from where they'd been resting over the small of her back to instead seize her rear – and what a pleasing one it is, too. Just like the rest of her. His Belgian girl is sex on legs, even if he can hardly believe they ended up tonguing like teenagers after a rather polite and pleasant conversation about the weather in Antwerp.

He directs her bucks down onto him, to rub the length of himself indulgently against her walls, and she thankfully seems happy to comply. It's almost primal, the desire to have as much of himself inside her as possible, but he also wants nothing more than to _please_ her. He's ridiculously grateful she looked _his_ way; she's miles outside of his league, after all. Bloody gorgeous, but apparently not a very good concierge, if she prefers to spend her time shagging guests... not that Arthur's going to be complaining to management.

Earlier (as he was about to take her on the bathroom's counter-top, naturally), he had to check his reflection just to ensure that yes, he _is_ still Arthur Kirkland, perpetually unimpressive and usually drably dressed, messy-haired and bushy-browed and not anything to look at, not really. Even so, she'd called him _very handsome_, during their third steamy tryst – steamy because it had been in the shower, that is – and he didn't even have to request it. It had simply toppled from her tongue, while she traced the back of her hand reverently across his cheek... a gesture gentle enough to make his heart ache.

Perhaps there's a very clear reason behind his desire to know her name.

"_Sir_," she cries, voice strangled enough to drag him back, shuddering, to the present. "Sir, I'm – I'm going to—"

He nearly finishes inside her at the sound of being called _sir_, but he manages to hold out by grinding his teeth together and tensing his thighs. She is a warm, gentle weight in his lap, and he glances shamelessly between them to watch himself disappearing into her with each thrust. He couldn't possibly explain why that sight is so _satisfying_, but what's even more satisfying is the prospect of coming _with_ her this time... yes, he's fairly certain the phrase is 'fifth time lucky'.

Should she venture to ask him later, he isn't sure which he'll choose as his favourite: the _tremendously _overwhelming orgasm that leaves him much more mellow than a Kirkland ever should be, or the way she clings to him as she undergoes her own. At least, it sounds good for her, judging by the elongated _ahhh_ she hisses out... but even that comes second-place to the shaky grip of her arms.

But that's all he has left in him. He still wants more even though he's exhausted, of course; he's got a week left in Antwerp and he intends to make the most of it. That resolution involves a lot of coaxing her into his room... because this hotel has awfully comfortable beds, see.

They don't move. Not for a while. She tucks her head beneath his chin in a way that would make him smile, if he wasn't far too spent to do anything other than pant, arms loosely hooked around her.

When he finally does feel ready to function again, there's only one thing he wants to do – so his mouth moves quite without his permission, newly-gruff voice saying, "May I ask you something?"

Her body twitches against him. "_Mm_."

"What's your name?"

"_Ah_." She shifts once more – this time with half-realised laughter. "Emma."

"Emma." It's nice. It suits her. He tips back his head to bask in the satisfied glow coursing through him, the scent they've filled the room with... though she doesn't give him long.

"Sir?" Her voice rumbles into his chest.

"Hm?"

"What's _your_ name?"

He grins. He can't help it. "Arthur."

Silence resumes, so he supposes it's all right to continue contentedly vegetating there, his boneless body propped up only by the pillows. It's a wonder he so much as hears Emma when she speaks again, because it's only a quiet little statement, laced with the tinkling infection of _delighted_ amusement.

"_Very handsome Arthur_."

* * *

(He decides that, when he can manage more than six syllables, he's going to ask her to dinner.)


	3. academic

**AN: **Here's gratitude for the feedback I received! To the commenter in question – I've got a few chapters lying about the place so it was mostly coincidence that two were published in a row that didn't have much dialogue. Hopefully this'll scratch your itch!

This one is Gakuen-verse; also, a warning for more fluff. I should really do something darker haha.

* * *

**academic**

* * *

_Bite down on your handkerchief_, Emma had purred, before settling herself between his legs.

Arthur finds the whole thing extremely unfair.

The campus outside is, thankfully, rather quiet; the student council meeting ran on for _far_ longer than it had any right to, so Arthur can only assume any lingering teachers are lingering no more, any lost first-years finally back safely inside their dorms. Outside, it's not _quite_ dusk, but the auburn light of the setting sun is enough to illuminate only Emma's smile as she glances up in him, bathed in orange he mistakes as erotic. Her expression is _far_ too sweet for what she's about to do... but that's always the way with this girl, isn't it?

Swallowing, Arthur clutches the sides of his chair, unable to tell if he's so much as _blinking_ any more or not. He's certainly not breathing, but that's only because he's shamefully interested in hearing the satisfying sound of Emma's slender fingers pulling down the rest of his zipper. They've done... a few things together, as teenage sweethearts will – but she's never done _this_ before.

It was her idea to try it, lest any accusations of coercion arise. He's a very willing participant, but the surprise her suggestion filled him with is almost as pleasant as what's about to come. She's usually so kind, so gentle, the very definition of 'cuddly' – and it's _deterred_ him from suggesting things like this once or twice, but perhaps he was being delicate with her for no reason.

Her free hand lightly presses against a knee of his, coaxing him into pushing his legs further apart while she fishes out his cock. It's no difficult task, stiff and straight as it currently is; he feels like he's _always_ aroused around her in some way or other. He puts it primly down to hormones.

Emma's smile is almost a sin, her eyes widening while she examines his cock like she's fascinated. He squirms slightly, uncomfortable under such scrutiny, but it's also because a charming girl like this shouldn't be on her knees for a boy like _him_... which is precisely why he's so excited.

_Tomorrow_, he thinks, in an airy sort of way, _I'll bring her six bouquets_.

"It's nice like this," she states, matter-of-factly, which is enough to make even Arthur's stoic composure falter. He falters further when she rubs her _cheek _against it, her skin comparatively cool with just how warm he is, live flesh eager to find some kind of relief.

"Nice?" Arthur mutters, thick brows furrowing. "Nice when it's _hard_?"

"Nice when it's hard for _me_." Emma wraps her hand around the base of it and he struggles not to buck in return. "Who knew our council chairman could be so depraved?"

"This was _your_ idea," he swiftly reminds her.

Though he'd usually take quite the ego-boost from her watching his cock like she's fascinated, it only makes him squirm – slightly, mind, but surely. Her hand moves with a gentle glide, smearing his own fluid over his length to ease her stroking. It's not like she doesn't know what she's doing; she's an expert at playing with him, leaving him an aching, throbbing wreck in her hand.

For now, though, it's... _tolerable_, the way she's teasing. He grinds his teeth and glares at her, to which she responds with an impossibly sunny smile.

"Don't look like that, Arthur," she says, huffing somewhat while she wiggles about to get comfortable. It can't be nice, kneeling before him like this, but if anyone can stay upbeat it's Emma. "I haven't seen him for a while – have I, sir?"

He's about to protest that his penis is not the best receptacle for conversation, but she cuts him off by reverently kissing his cockhead.

"_Ohh_, don't do that."

"Too weird?"

"Too _nice_."

"That's good, then." Emma smiles at him like she always does, but it's so _hopeful _this time that it's almost enough to make his heart break, if she wasn't currently rubbing earnestly at his arousal. "I want to do something you'll like, Arthur."

Without further ado, her plush lips part for him, and it's so sudden but he wastes no time in pushing himself forward. He's been inside her in the conventional sense before – how surprised she was to hear he was just as, erm, _inexperienced_ as she – but he's always inquisitive about new sensations and _oh_, this is most certainly a good one. It's wet, tight; things he's used to, but what he wasn't prepared for was her tongue to push up against him, her eyes wide and attentive while she watches him slowly enter her mouth as best she can.

Arthur doesn't think he's ever seen the council room this quiet, just her and him and his new best friend, this chair. She pulls back, kisses his prick again; he's taken by surprise, clutching said seat even tighter than before. Oh, he could curse her smile, because she's _loving_ this – he's never usually this lost for words. Must make a nice change.

He places a hand atop her head, though he isn't sure why he felt the need to do so. It's only when she begins curiously suckling on his tip that he suddenly understands, and the groan dragged out from him is a portrait of arousal that surprises even _him_. While his fingers curl into her hair – soft, pretty hair, oh; she's so _pretty_ – his head slowly tips back as hers begins to bob.

Greedy thing that he is, he already wants her to take the rest of him, but he knows that's unreasonable, savouring what he has already. _Emma is,_ he decides (mouth curling just as much as his toes), _the best girlfriend ever_, and the tally of bouquets he owes her is going to grow exponentially.

He doesn't think he's ever been this hard before, this slick. It feels like it's positively pouring into her mouth... but in reality it must just _be_ her mouth that's making the glide so easy. He's being very good about _not_ slamming into her (because God forbid she's put off doing this again in future), but it's growing more difficult by the second.

Something Arthur _can_ put down to hormones is how poorly he's going to last, because he already feels the draw of orgasm at the base of his sac, tucked warmly away within his clothing. Emma pointedly refuses to aid matters by pressing the heel of a hand against him through the fabric, very much aware how sensitive he is there – and then she begins _kneading_, softly and slowly, each bob of her head more confidently done than the last. When his knees start trembling, he knows he's in trouble.

"_Emma_," he says – nay, whines. He doubts very much she'll want to swallow this stuff, so it's only courtesy that he alerts her, glancing down at her with the best glare he can manage. Granted, his authority is somewhat diminished by his slack mouth and tense throat and flushed, bright cheeks.

What he gets in return is the most conclusive smirk of _mischief_ he's ever seen her give, which is rather impressive, considering how stretched her lips are. Her mouth looks so small, her fingers hesitantly rubbing along what's exposed of his flesh; he wonders if now would be a crude moment to realise he's probably going to marry her.

For such a momentous occasion, it only feels right for him to say a few concluding words. He apparently decides that "fuck me, oh, _fuck_," will do the job – and then he's clutching at her hair firmly enough to strain his knuckles, gripping the chair hard enough to make it creak, thrusting forward with enough force to hit the back of her mouth and make her let out the most delightful squeak. He didn't mean to, would never mean to, but it's difficult to control himself when he's been wanting to rub his aching cock up against her since earlier's council meeting began and _this_, this is much better.

She does swallow it. Surely engagement rings can't be that expensive.

If he wasn't resigned to draping over his seat with a revoltingly blissful smile, Arthur would protest to how she neatly tucks him back up again, rising to her feet for an equally neat smoothing of her uniform. She stands before him for a moment to simply observe him, her soft, attentive smile back in place. There's something nervous about the way she places one hand on his cheek, stooping enough to kiss his forehead – his chest does that inconvenient thing where it _tightens_, especially when she pulls back just enough to examine him with a lip-biting smile.

"Was that good?"

_Was that good_.

Tasting himself be damned; he ungracefully seizes her lapels, discarding all notions of decorum, and pulls her down to kiss her _properly_.


	4. transport

**AN: **Here's a slightly tamer piece. No idea where this AU came from, but here's a warning for some creeping from Arthur... though in his defence, we've all seen fit strangers we might accept candy from.

* * *

**transport**

* * *

The highlight of Arthur's day begins upon catching his morning bus.

The bus itself is nice enough, a double-decker with a reassuring amount of regular passengers – though the driver's irritable inter-personal manner could really do with some work. It's not the bus that serves as his highlight, nor is it his favourite seat: one at the front, vacant most mornings due to its proximity with the aforementioned driver.

Passing glimpses of London's streets are never memorable either, though he'd be lying if he said he doesn't take _some _enjoyment from them. Every passing road means he's getting closer, that the bus is only four, three, _two_ stops away from the one that contains the best part of his journey.

Today, it's raining outside – lightly, mere drizzle making its presence known by bothering the windowpanes. It's still enough to make an impression on _her_, slightly frizzy-haired as she gracefully climbs inside, once the bus has slowed to a stop.

She is blond, not short but not towering, her face a humble sort of pretty and her eyes a striking green. She takes the same bus as Arthur every morning, but never in the afternoon, and though he doesn't so much as know her name, he always looks forward to seeing her. Be it from routine or recognition, she never fails to greet Arthur with a warm, friendly beam before taking the seat across the aisle when it's left equally empty (rude drivers are secret saints).

Even so, she alone is not his highlight.

His highlight is picturing what he'd rather like to _do_ to her.

It isn't proper, he knows, to spend his time fantasising about a woman he only sees on their commute to work. Or at least, it's _his_ commute; he really knows nothing about her, because he's never spoken to her for more than ten mumbled seconds, awkward exchanges about the time and the weather. He tells himself most other people, even her, are probably too intellectually inferior to be worth his time (he's shy). Just as he assures his family he's merely married to his work (he's lonely).

London attracts people from all over, but he thinks her accent is Belgian, or Dutch, from the few times he's heard it. Her voice is soft and chirpy-sweet, sometimes motherly and sometimes downright flirtatious – depending on who she's speaking to. The mere moments of it he's been granted have made him hungry for more, and though he finds himself occasionally imagining conversations (things he'd talk to her about, if he wasn't so clumsy), he usually imagines her voice in more intimate settings.

Arthur finds himself wondering how easily the clucks of her tongue and sweet little snippets of humming could be transitioned into whimpers, mewls, sighs – all while writhing beneath him, of course. He feels ashamed for it, sexualising some poor friendly woman on the bus – but he can't help it. He at least never imagines her uttering filthy things, though that's mostly because he can't picture it from a woman like her.

She probably wouldn't know where to start. Her gaze is too doe-eyed and she dresses too sensibly (though some might say the same about _him_, and he's apparently a monumental pervert – he should have some sort of trophy, really). She is pleasantly plump with the weight of happy living, which warms Arthur in the strangest way: his kindly travelling companion, though mysterious, just _feels_ like someone who deserves to be fortunate.

When she smiles to herself – as she often does – her lips take on a precious curl, the most endearing smile Arthur's ever seen. And he can't count the number of times he's wanted to press his thumb against the corner of her mouth, to have her innocent gaze fall with soft surprise upon him as the pad of it pushes inside – tracing her teeth, until they part enough for the tip of her pink little tongue to comply in sucking him in. It wouldn't just be a thumb he'd want to give her, but that would be a start.

She interrupts his musings by turning her head while she ruffles her dampened locks. He'd rather grip her hair, hard and directive – but he still squirms in his seat, hopes she hadn't seen his attempt at subtly observing her. To be safe, he briefly pretends to be entranced by raindrops marching across the window beside him.

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to notice, attention turning back to her book. That's another thing about her – she reads, some days, and they're always books Arthur _likes_. He could easily strike up a discussion, if he wanted... oh, but he's ever so uncertain. He couldn't possibly. She wouldn't want to.

Arthur's not deluded enough to think she looks at _him_ the same way he looks at her, and it's entirely possible she has some other beau. He's assumed so, in fact, because she glows with stellate charm, a composition of soft skin and pleasant shape. Her virtues hardly ends there, but he can only imagine what lies beneath her clothing: from the way her breasts have strained against certain shirts, even jumpers, he thinks they must be rather agreeable, too.

It's her legs he really likes. In summer she tends to show them off, long, shapely things that cross invitingly at the knee. The heat makes her go bare, so he considers it a real treat when she dons stockings, or tights: he imagines removing them with his teeth, tearing into thin material while he's settled snugly between her gorgeous legs, fabric just as soft as the sheets surrounding them.

His fantasies tend to involve surprising her. That's what he wants to do – surprise her, spontaneously ask a woman he's never really conversed with to coffee. Oh, he'd be the perfect gentleman, keeping every spark of desire secret while devoting himself only to keeping her happy, entertained, hopefully amused: he wants to do _everything_ for her.

Today, it seems, all he really wants is to kiss her. His line of vision falls upon her mouth again, plump pink lips she's stained with inviting red, and he licks his own at the notion of slipping his tongue inside to curl with hers.

He clasps his hands neatly in his lap to remind himself _no, down, boy... _only to muster a brief smile when he pictures it, what it would be like to taste her. Arthur sees her so clearly melting in his arms, sighing so contentedly against his mouth while he holds her, kisses her, threads his fingers through hair she apparently doesn't like when it's frizzy. She tastes like chocolate, in his thoughts.

Everything about her must taste as delicious, a conclusion he reaches upon realising he can't let himself feel fond for too long. That's where it gets dangerous, when he begins thinking about such inanely gentle things, kisses and cuddles and warming each other up in the winter-grip of cold morning bedrooms.

_She wouldn't want you_, he tells himself. _You don't need anyone, old chap_.

Should that be true, he could die happy if he only got to test his theory. It's criminal to imagine such milky thighs have never been traced by an eager cheek, her legs never parted for a willing body, her mound never licked and nuzzled with the utmost enthusiasm...

No, Arthur can't be sure of it – but she's so trusting. She trusts him enough to smile at him even though he abuses it, twists it to imagine later luring her into his bed and doing filthy things to her until her hips buck for him, her mouth sobbing his name over and over...

He's _horrible_; that's why he can never let himself talk to her. He wouldn't deserve her, if she did turn out to be what he'd dreamt of, to be kind and considerate and and lovely, enough to spare him the slightest glance every morning like she _knows_ him, like she'd be upset if he wasn't there to receive it.

So perhaps the aloof Arthur Kirkland has a crush. A silly, unrealistic crush.

Every morning, his highlight is abruptly taken from him when she departs from the bus at a stop earlier than his – she leaves each time without a farewell gesture, more concerned with getting to wherever she's going. That stop always arrives far too quickly and the present is no exception; he's trained himself to swiftly look down when she's about to walk out. Wouldn't do for her to catch him at the last moment.

Quite a few people tend to depart alongside her, as it's conveniently close to the high street. Suits and shirts all swap seats, battling for entry or exit through the doors by shoving, muttering, casting dark words and dark glances – _ah_, the solidarity of the London commute. It's almost fascinating, to see so many different walks of life all taking the same transport, but Arthur's mornings have very little room for another object of fascination.

He only looks up again once the bus begins moving.

He finds, with substantial surprise, that he's acquired a seating partner.

"I hope you don't mind," says _she_ – and he could _cry_, all maudlin joy from hearing her voice again, if he wasn't far too repressed for anything of the sort. "I felt I should give up my seat for new arrivals, and I saw the seat beside you was free –I'm going somewhere new today."

How exciting for her. How inconvenient for Arthur. With a twitch from his imposing brows, he glances past her to examine the seats she'd been occupying alone before. True to her tale, they're now occupied by two people, a little boy and a woman Arthur takes to be the boy's mother.

Currently, he feels rather like a little boy himself.

Undeterred, his mysterious infatuation presses on, busying herself by slipping her reading material into her bag. "I didn't think you'd be _too_ annoyed, because you know me, I think – at least, enough to know I'm not here to bother you – but it's rude of me, so extremely rude of me that I... Wait, have you told me your name before? I forgot it, I forgot it; I'm so foolish!"

"No," he replies, too far gone for his responses to be anything other than entirely automatic. "Well, no, you're not _foolish_ – but I don't think I've told you." He swallows, then, momentarily silent; but she _wants_ to know. He's not imposing on her if she's asking, is he? "It's Arthur."

"Arthur," she murmurs. "Arthur, Arthur... My name is Emma, and I like Arthur! It suits you. You always seem very... regal."

He nearly surrenders himself to biter laughter, aware she wouldn't be saying such a thing if he knew what had been dancing through his head. Instead of correcting her, he merely states, "Thank you. And, er – I like Emma, too; it's pretty, really. I'm glad to finally meet you, though. Well. Meet you properly."

There must be something in his tone that sounds relieved, because she laughs at that. She _snorts_, too, covering her face with a dainty hand – it bothers him that he only finds it endearing.

"I'm glad to know _yours_, Arthur! Seeing you is the highlight of my morning – you always seem so _uncomfortable_ with public transport." She offers him her smile and, while maintaining surprisingly gratifying eye contact, she gently pats his knee. It's... nice. "I'll do my best to make you more comfortable."

Now there's an offer. It's still raining outside, and he still very much has work, and he's not going to change his stance on asking her to coffee... not yet, anyway. But it's a start, an opportunity to talk to her, to see if there's anything more between them than literary tastes.

Her hand comes to rest on his knee instead. He doesn't mention it; she doesn't move it.


	5. furtive

**furtive**

* * *

_First, I will undress you._

_This will be no rushed act: you are a gift I have been anticipating, and I've imagined, often, what I might find beneath your apparel. At base, I am an unrealised voyeur, for I've had you spread and naked in my thoughts countless times – it will have taken me until now to test my theories regarding the secrets of your body, to decide – languidly – that it's high time I unwrap my present._

_I will begin by standing before you, my eyes fixed to yours – and I expect you not to look away. I will take great care, of course, as I unfasten each little white button, soldiers dutifully guarding the territory of your skin – an undiscovered estate that will become my own. You chose a blouse this morning, I note, with fabric so flimsy that I've been eyeing the lace around your breasts all day: it will give me the utmost pleasure to push the whole affair to the ground._

_Your skin will be, typically, a pleasure unto itself, healthy and soft and, I hope, tinged with the prettiest pink for me: the pink of your fingertips, your cheeks, the flush removing your shirt will inevitably send creeping above your breasts. And how you've teased me with them, my fond coquette. I expect you'll blush all the more when I grasp them, reverently caressing them whilst never once breaking eye contact – I want to see your countenance while I touch you, before I stoop and rub my cheek along you, once the lace is discarded, tookjlp_

Arthur Kirkland scowls disapprovingly at the screen, backspacing his typographical error after slyly glancing over his shoulder. He'd thought he'd heard something, and though people rarely wander over to his corner of the office, it wouldn't do for one of his less understanding colleagues to see the somewhat risqué email he's currently composing.

The name proudly occupying the 'to' box is none other than Emma Janssens – so it _really_ wouldn't do for anyone else to see.

She's the receptionist. Sort of. Their office block isn't large so Emma flitters between a variety of roles: tea maker, motivation provider, resident photocopier tamer... and Arthur's paramour.

Sexually harassing the receptionist is so very commonplace in offices like this that Arthur would be embarrassed, really, if anyone knew the sort of emails he's been sending her. As far as perversion goes, it would place him on a cliché, putrid rung of the ladder, and his reputation as distant from all sexual or romantic matters would be well and truly spoilt, but it's not like Emma doesn't wholeheartedly want to read them.

In fact, Emma writes back.

Hastily concluding his latest message with another ode to her tits, Arthur hits send and leans back in his seat. He lifts the mug on his desk, taking a sip to complete his 'acting casual' aesthetic, though his eyes are frantically darting back and forth between his colleagues – none of whom are bothering to even look his way.

Good. That's reassuring. He does at least complete his own assignments between sharing masturbatory fantasies: he and Emma have been emailing for a month now, and his productivity certainly hasn't dropped. The amount of times he's had to flee, almost limping, to the men's toilets _has_ increased, but that's not an issue currently. Not yet.

He glances to the clock, then pulls up the dreadfully fascinating spreadsheet he's been completing, settling down to work until – well, ten minutes later, because that's when his computer emits a quiet _ping_. Treating the office to another suspicious once-over, Arthur resists the comforting urge to tremble just a bit as he opens the newly-received message. Is he trembling with nervousness? Excitement?

_I will welcome it. I think you've earned it by now, deserve to get your look and grope of me, though I only hope I don't disappoint you. I chose this blouse because I knew it would tease you, but that was naughty of me! How cruel. I hope it won't make you too sore when you think about it later._

_Or maybe you __**are**__ sore? Maybe you are calm and stoic while you take off everything I'm wearing, because I can feel your eyes keeping me in place like your hands would – such strong, firm hands. (You really must let me feel them all over me later, darling; it is more than I deserve but I need them.)_

_No matter how calm you seem as you're observing me, I will be able to see if you're hard. I imagine you're big enough for me to admire as you grow aroused while you're touching me, so I want to know if I could touch you, too? Could I stroke and pet your ache as an apology for doing this to you? You've been such a good boy (until now) that I will have to reward you._

It takes an impressive degree of willpower on Arthur's part not to grin wildly, though he does squirm in his sensible desk chair. He pictures her – first naked and purring like a cat, in the usual fashion, then rather more realistically at her desk. Shameless, pulling sultry, pouting faces at her computer before hitting send and becoming the epitome of bubbly professionalism again. How lucky arrivals are, to be greeted by such a pretty sight after entering such a drab building.

And so it goes on for the rest of the day: they can create erotic symphonies together within a few mere hours, their keyboards caressed and stroked in lieu of the other's presence. It sometimes takes a week or so for rather particular fantasies to reach their crescendo, but Arthur doesn't mind, never minds. Knowing each lurid desire oozed directly from gentle, innocent _Emma's_ thoughts makes for rather pleasant reading.

Before the day ends, they've discussed at length how much she wants to ride him – but after they've satisfied his curiosity as to what having her long, shapely legs draped around his shoulders would feel like. In most of their little exchanges, she's holding on to him, tightly, and that notion finally manages to stir something inconvenient within his boxers, constrained to the dullest little twitches because he's no longer a teenager, thankfully.

Seeing breasts swinging and hair flicking and lips pursing, Arthur shuts his eyes at times to pretend he's simply rubbing the bridge of his nose, though he can feel her, when he doesn't look. Her thighs tightly locked around his own, legs spread just enough for him to glide easy into the gorgeous creature atop his lap.

It's at closing time (about ten mugs of tea later) when he's struck by his ingenious idea. It's one he's had before, though never acted on – but now he thinks he _can_, waiting for his dearest colleagues to collect their coats and pick up their briefcases. He fidgets in his seat, pretending he's simply waiting for his beloved computed to shut down, while his gaze inattentively examines the clock to see how late he's going to be.

He's going to stop her outside work.

Messages only go so far; words flirtatiously glowing on an unresponsive screen do a poor job of keeping him warm at night. His bed is just as lonely as his loins, and she simply feels ripe for the taking, after their stretch of unconventional courtship. He's chasing fantasy, enacted.

Rising from his seat once the worst have cleared out, he drapes his jacket over his arm and hurries towards the staircase. If he's lucky, she'll still be there, neatly positioned behind her station – a precious ribbon in her hair, surprisingly high heels to go with a skirt falling just below the knee. She is so close to his fingertips that they tingle with excitement, thumb and forefinger longing to gently pinch her cheek, to caress her there until her rare, precious little giggle escapes aboard a smile.

She's told him, after all (following one particularly jealous message from him that he's been too embarrassed to mention again) that he's the only one she speaks to, the only co-worker she finds amusingly silly and alluringly handsome. He's never thought himself to be either of those things, but if that's what she likes then who is he to argue?

Sure enough, Emma _is_ by her desk when he emerges from the stairwell, her coat resting across its surface while she gathers papers strewn nearby. She doesn't notice him approach her, too concerned with her current task, and she's therefore taken by surprise when he lifts said coat and holds it up for her to slip into.

"_Arthur_!" she says, the chirp of her tone somewhere between bewilderment and surprise. Still, she plays along, glancing back at him while she slips one arm into its sleeve, and then the other. "My, my; such a gentleman."

Arthur grins. Leaping into matters, then. "You certainly weren't saying that earlier."

It delights him that Emma _blushes_, the faintest rosy dusting that illuminates her slight smile. "Mm. It's difficult to call anyone a gentleman when they're enthusiastically telling me the length of their–"

"Yes." Arthur coughs, primly, because he can't be so sure they're alone yet: his office is not the only one this building houses. "I – was wondering something, you see."

"Oh?" Emma says, turning to face him. Her voice lowers as she adds, "Whatever could your curiosity be, Mr. Kirkland? Perhaps the colour of something in my wardrobe?"

He grins. "Well. Not just that."

"Goodness! Really?"

"Really-truly, madam. I was wondering, rather, if you might be... free, this evening?"

Arthur isn't sure what he'd been expecting: a smile, perhaps, or at least a look of contemplation to grace his kitten's features. But what he gets is nothing of the sort, and he feels something sink, harpooned, inside his belly – he just can't tell if it's his heart or his, er, libido.

"Oh," she says, softly. A moment passes in which she watches him, after which she casts her gaze to the ground; she takes a step back to steady herself on those heels, but he takes more note of the fact she's moving away from him. A moment ago she'd been a sleek career-woman of raw sexual energy, but Arthur suspects that was mostly fantasy on his part, because she now looks small and frightened within a coat she bought at least a size too big.

Arthur suddenly sees the pair of them for exactly what they are.

He is _Arthur Kirkland_, and he is only inclined towards written correspondence because he's too shy for anything else. He can verbally castrate his inferiors and breezily belittle his bosses, but he apparently can't bring himself to feel attraction, fondness, for fear it'll all be taken away again far too soon. He can't risk it, the needless heartache that might arise from Emma leaving him in person rather than simply deleting his emails – a love lost to the recycle bin, fleeting fancy alive only in her spam folder.

She, meanwhile – she is Emma Janssens, a soft-hearted, familial woman, content with the detachment of this type of lust, but hardly comfortable with the idea of _really_ clinging to him while he does those... things, to her. Her wings are clipped with the societal fear he'd think less of her, somehow, if she simply did what she wanted, and what if she isn't pretty enough? She isn't his mewling Belgian sex kitten; she looks at her reflection and thinks it's plain.

Arthur watches her, closely, to see if that anxiety in her demeanour will dissolve any time soon. He wants to tell her she's _too_ good for him, really, and he doesn't think he's much at all – but he'd give her all of it, if she asked. He could take her to overpriced dinner in a bistro tonight, and drop her home with only a kiss to the cheek. That would be enough.

Emma looks at him again, pleadingly. Her mouth is poised as though she wishes to talk, though the rest of her has shied away from him in all but proximity. It's not fair, he thinks, that she expects _him_ to get her out of this, but he's not so cruel that he'd leave her to panic.

"If you're _busy_," he hastily declares, to a woman whose most significant plan for tonight probably involves petting her cat, "we could always do something at a later date, I suppose. It would be a bit of a squeeze anyway, scheduling-wise, amidst all that work I have to do, so... perhaps not tonight."

At least she smiles again. Part relief and part dispirit. "Yes. Not tonight."

He kisses her cheek.

She accepts it.

They leave the building behind them in opposite directions.


End file.
